But as Jennie opened the door to let herself out, two men were standing on the cement sidewalk in front of the grassplots, examining the house. They were big, heavily built men, who, although in plain clothes, suggested the guardianship of law. It came to Jennie instantly that their examination of the house was peculiar; and of that peculiarity she divined with equal promptness the significance. The men declared afterward that in her manner of standing on the step and waiting till they spoke to her there was the same kind of "give-away" as when her brother had eyed them across Broad Street.

The older and heavier of the two advanced up the walk between the grassplots.

"This is the Follett house, ain't it, miss?"

Jennie replied that it was.

"And you're Miss Follett?"

She assented again.

"Is your brother in?"

"N-no; he's not in town."

The big man turned toward his taller and slighter colleague, whatever he had to say being communicated by a look. Having expressed this thought, he veered round again toward Jennie, speaking politely.

"Maybe we could have a word with you, private-like."

"Won't you step in?"

Presently they were all three seated in the living room, the big man continuing as spokesman.

"Ah, now, about your brother, Miss Follett; you're sure he isn't anywheres around?"

The inference from the tone was that somehow Jennie was secreting him.

"He isn't to my knowledge. He called up last evening to say that he wouldn't be home to-day, and perhaps not to-morrow."

The two men being seated within range of each other's eyes, some new understanding was flashed silently.

"Did he, then? And where would he have called up from?"

"From Paterson."

"From Paterson, was it? And what made you think it was from Paterson?"

"He said so."

"And that was all you had to go by?"

"That was all."

"Well, well, now! He said so, did he? And he didn't come home last night?"

Jennie shook her head.

For a third time Flynn's eyes telegraphed something to Jackman's, and Jackman's responded. What they said to each other Jennie didn't try to surmise, for the reason that she was listening to a call. It was the call that Teddy had heard on the night when his father had brought home the news that he was "fired"—the call to assume responsibilities. Her father had gone; her mother was collapsing; Teddy had broken beneath the strain. "And now it's up to me." Mentally, she spoke the words almost before she was conscious of the thought. "And that settles it." These words, too, she spoke mentally, but in them the reference was different. The vision of love and twenty-five thousand dollars, of bliss for herself and relief for the family, which had waxed and waned so often, now faded out forever behind a mass of storm-clouds. But of all this she gave no sign as she waited for the burly man to speak again.

"And when your brother called up from Paterson—let us say it was Paterson—didn't you ask him no questions at all?"

"He didn't speak to me. I wasn't at home. It was to my little sister. I understood that he rang off before she could ask him anything."

"Oh, he did, did he?" The telegraphy between the two men was renewed. "And didn't he say nothin' about what had tuck him to a place like Paterson?"

"I think he said it was business."

"'Business,' was it? Ah, well, now! And what sort of business would that be?"

"I don't know."

"And would you tell me now if you did know?"

Jennie looked at him with clear, limpid eyes.

"I'm not sure that I would. I don't know what right you have to ask me questions as it is."

"This right." Turning back the lapel of his coat, he displayed a badge. "We don't want to frighten you, Miss Follett, my friend and me, we don't; but if you know anything about the boy, it'll be easier in the long run both for him and for you—"

"What do you want him for?"

Lizzie's voice was so deep that it startled. On the threshold of the little entry she stood, tall, black robed, almost unearthly. At the same time Pansy, who had also come downstairs, crept toward Flynn with a low, vicious growl. Both men stumbled to their feet, awed by something in Lizzie which was more than the majesty of grief.

"Ah, now, we're sorry to disturb you, ma'am, my friend and me. We know you've had trouble, and we wouldn't be for wantin' to bring more into a house where there's enough of it already. But when things is duty, they can't be put by just because they're unpleasant—"

"Has my son been taking money from Collingham & Law's?"

The spectral voice gave force to the directness of the question. Abandoning the hint of professional bullying he had taken toward Jennie, Flynn, with Pansy's teeth not six inches from his calf, went a pace or two toward the figure in the entry.

"Has he been takin' money, that boy of yours? Well now, and have you any reason to think so, ma'am?"

"None—apart from what I hoped."

"Momma!"

Jennie sprang to her mother, grasping her by the arm. While Jackman stood like an iron figure in the background, Flynn, always with Pansy's teeth keeping some six inches from his calf, advanced still another pace or two.

"Ah, now, that's a quare thing, ma'am, for the mother of a lad to say—that she hoped he was takin' money."

"Oh, don't mind her," Jennie pleaded. "She hasn't been just—just right—ever since my father died."

"I didn't think of it at first," Lizzie stated, in a lifeless voice. "I believed what he told us, that he was making money on the side. It was only latterly that I began to suspect that he wasn't; and now I hope he took it from the bank."

"But, good God! ma'am, why? Don't you know he'll be caught—and what he'll get for it?"

"Oh, he'd get that just the same, if you mean suffering and punishment and a life of misery. All I want is that he should be the first to strike. Since he's got to go down before brute power—"

"Brute power of law and order, ma'am, if you'll allow me to remind you."

She uttered a little joyless laugh.

"Law and order! You'll excuse me for laughing, won't you? I've heard so much of them—"

"And you're likely to hear a lot more, if this is the way o' things."

"Oh, I expect to. They'll do me to death, as they'll do you, and as they do everyone else. Law and order are the golden images set up for us to bow down to and worship as gods; and we get the reward that's always dealt out to those who believe in falsehood."

Flynn appealed to both Jennie and Jackman.

"I never heard no one talk like that, whether dotty or sane."

"If it was real law and order," Lizzie continued, with the same passionless intonation, "that would be another thing. But it isn't. It's faked law and order. It's a plaster on a sore, meant to hide the ugly thing and not to heal it. It's to keep bad bad by pretending that it's good—"

"Ah, but bad as it is, ma'am," Flynn began to reason, "it's better than stealin'—now, isn't it?"

But Lizzie seemed ready for him here.

"I think I've read in your Bible that the commandment, 'Thou shalt not steal,' was given to a people among whom it was a principle that everyone should be provided for. If it happened that anyone was not provided for, there was another commandment given as to him, 'Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn.' He was to be free to take what he needed."

Flynn shook his head.

"That may be in the Bible, ma'am; but it wouldn't stand in a court o' law."

"Of course it wouldn't; only, the court of law is nothing to me."

"It can make itself something to you, ma'am, if you don't mind my sayin' so."

"Oh no, it can't! It can try me and sentence me and lock me up; but that's no worse than law and order are doing to me and mine every hour of the day."

"Oh, momma," Jennie pleaded, clinging to her mother's arm, "please stop—please!"

"I'm only warning him, darling. Law and order will bring him to grief as it does everyone else. How many did it kill in the war? Something like twelve millions, wasn't it, and could anyone ever reckon up the number of aching hearts it's left alive?"

"Yes, momma; but that kind of talk doesn't do Teddy any good."

"It does if we make it plain that he was only acting within his rights. These people think that by passing a law they impose a moral duty. What nonsense! I want my son to be brave enough to strike at such a theory as that. It's true that they'll strike back at him, and that they have the power to crush him—only, in the long run he'll be the victor."

Flynn looked at Jennie in sympathetic apology.

"All right now, Miss Follett. I guess my friend and me'll be goin' along—"

"You'll do just as you like about that," Lizzie interposed, with dignity; "but if you see my son before I do, tell him not to be sorry for what he's done, and above all not to think that I blame him. 'Thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn.' When you do, the eighth commandment doesn't apply any longer."

Jennie followed her visitors to the doorstep. After her mother's reckless talk, they seemed like friends, as, indeed, at bottom of their kindly hearts they could easily have been. They brought no ill will to their job—only a conviction that if Teddy Follett was a thief, they must "get him."

"Does—does Mr. Collingham know that all this is going on?"

She asked her question in trepidation, lest these men, trained to ferret out whatever was most hidden, should be able to read her secret. It was Jackman who shouldered the duty of answering. He seemed more laconic than his colleague, and more literate.

"We don't trouble Mr. Collingham with trifles. If it was a big thing—"

So Jennie was left with that consolation—that it was not a big thing. How big it was she could only guess at, but, whatever the magnitude, she had no doubt at all but that it was "up to her." She got some inspiration from the little word "up." There was a lift in it that made her courageous.

Nevertheless, when she returned to the living room, finding her mother seated, erect and stately, in an armchair, with Pansy gazing at her with eyes of quenchless, infinite devotion, Jennie knew a qualm of fear.

"Oh, momma, wouldn't it be awful if Teddy had to go to jail?"

"It would be awful or not, just as you took it. If you thought he went to jail as a thief, it would be awful, but if you saw him only as the martyr of a system, you'd be proud to know he was there."

"Oh, but, momma, what's the good of saying things like that?"

"What's the good of letting them throw you down, a quivering bundle of flesh, before a Juggernaut, and just being meekly thankful? That's what your father and I have always done, and, now that the wheels have passed over him, I see the folly of keeping silent. I may not do any good by speaking, but at least I speak. When they muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn, it isn't much wonder if the famished beast goes mad. Did you ever see a mad ox, Jennie? Well, it's a terrible sight—the most patient and laborious drudge among animals, goaded to a desperation in which he's conscious of nothing but his wrongs and his strength. They generally kill him. It's all they can do with him—but, of course, they can do that."

"So that it doesn't do the ox much good to go mad, does it?"

"Oh yes; because he gets out of it. That's the only relief for us, Jennie darling—to get out of it. I begin to understand how mothers can so often kill themselves and their children. They don't want to leave anyone they love to endure the sufferings this world inflicts."

From these ravings Jennie was summoned by the tinkle of the telephone bell.

"Teddy!" cried the mother, starting to her feet.

"No; it's Mr. Wray. I knew he'd ring me if I didn't turn up."

The instrument was in the entry, and Jennie felt curiously calm and competent as she went toward it. All decisions being taken out of her hands, she no longer had to doubt and calculate. The renunciations, too, were made for her. She was not required to look back, only to go on.

In answer to the question, "Is this Mrs. Follett's house?" she replied, as if the occasion were an ordinary one:

"Yes, Mr. Wray. I'm sorry I can't come to the studio."

"Oh! so it's you! You can't come—what? Then you needn't come any more."

"Yes; that's what I thought. I see now that—that I can't."

"Well, of all—" He broke off in his expostulation to say: "Jennie, for God's sake, what's the matter with you? What are you afraid of?"

"I'm not afraid of anything, Mr. Wray; but there's a good deal the matter which I can't explain on the telephone."

"Do you want me to come over there?"

"No; you couldn't do any good."

"Is it money?"

"No." She remembered the accumulation of untouched bills and checks in her glove-and-handkerchief box upstairs. "I've got plenty of money. There's nothing you could do, thank you."

There was a pause before he said:

"Then it's all off? Is that what you mean?"

"Isn't it what you meant yourself only a minute ago?"

"Oh, well, you needn't stake your life on that."

She began to feel faint. It cost her more to stand there talking than she had supposed it would when she took up the receiver.

"I'm afraid I must—must stake my life on that. I—I can't stay now. I can't come any more to see you, either. I've—I've given up posing. G—good-by."

She heard him beginning to protest from the other end.

"No, Jennie! Wait! For God's sake!"

But her putting-up of the receiver cut them off from each other.

"So that's all over," she said to herself, turning again into the living room.

But she said it strongly, as Lizzie had many a time said similar things on witnessing the death of hopes, with desolation in the heart, perhaps, but no wish to cry.

Meanwhile, Flynn and Jackman, trudging toward the car station in the square, were discussing this strange case.

"That was a funny line o' talk about the ox treadin' out the corn. I never heard nothin' like that in our church."

But Jackman, being a Methodist and a student of the Bible before coming to New York and giving himself to detective work, was able to explain.

"That's in the Old Testament, to begin with; but Paul takes it up and says that, though it was meant, in the first place, to apply to the animals, its real application is to man. 'That he that ploweth may plow in hope, and that he that thresheth in hope should be partaker of his hope'—that's the way it runs. That everyone should get a generous living wage and not be cheated of it in the end is the way you might put it into our kind of talk."

"Is it now? And it do seem fair—don't it?—for all the old woman yonder is so daft. And would that Paul be the same Saint Paul as we've got in our church?"

"Oh, the very same."

"Would he now? And you a Protestant! That's one thing I've often wondered—why there had to be so many religions and everyone wasn't a Catholic. It'd be just as easy, and cost us less. Ah, well! It's a quare world, and that poor woman's had a powerful dose o' trouble. I don't wonder she's got wheels in her head. Do you? Maybe you and me'd have them if we'd gone through the same." Having thus worked up to his appeal, he plunged into it. "I know wan little woman 'd be glad if I was to come home to-night and tell her we'd called the thing off. That's my Tessie. It's amazin' how she's set her heart on my not trackin' down this boy."

"Not to track him down would be to compound a felony," Jackman replied, severely.

"Ah, well! So it would, now. You sure have got the right dope there, Jackman, and that I'll tell Tessie. I'll say I'd be compounding a felony, and them words 'll scare her good."

So Flynn, too, resigned himself, putting on once more the mask of craft and implacability that was part of his stock in trade, and which Jackman rarely took off.

And all that day Teddy lay crouched in his lair with his eye glued more or less faithfully to the peephole. Except from hunger, he had suffered but little, and the minutes had been too exciting to seem long in going by. It was negative excitement, springing from what didn't happen; but because something might happen, and happen at any instant, it was excitement. From morning to midday, and from midday on into the afternoon, cars, carts, and pedestrians traveled in and out of Jersey City, each spelling possible danger. Now and then a man or a vehicle had paused in the road within calling distance of the shanty. For two minutes, for five, or for ten at a time, Teddy lay there wondering as to their intentions and trying to make up his mind as to his own course. Whether to shoot himself or make a bolt for it, or if he shot himself whether it should be through the temple or the heart, were points as to which he was still undecided. He would get inspiration, he told himself, when the time came. He had often heard that in crises of peril the brain worked quicker than in moments of tranquillity; and perhaps, after all, a crisis of peril might not lie before him.

In a measure, he was growing used to his situation as an outlaw; he was growing used to the separation from the family. It was not that he loved them less, but that he had moved on and left them behind. He could think of them now without the longing to cry he had felt yesterday, while the desperation of his plight centered his thought more and more upon himself. If he didn't have to shoot himself, he planned, in as far as plans were possible, to sneak away into the unknown and become a tramp. He couldn't do it yet, because the roads were probably being watched for him; but by and by, when the hunt had become less keen....

Seven doughnuts swallowed without a drop of water being far from the nourishment to which he was accustomed, he waited with painful eagerness for nightfall. When the primrose-colored lights up and down the road and along the ragged fringe of the town were deepening to orange, he crept forth cautiously. Even while half hidden by the sedgy grasses, he felt horribly exposed, and when he emerged into the open highway, the eyes of all the police in New York seemed to spy him through the twilight. Nevertheless, he tramped back toward the dwellings of men, doing his best to hide his face when motor lights flashed over him too vividly.

Unable to think of anything better than to return to the friendly woman who had given him seven doughnuts for his six, he found her behind her counter, in company with a wispy little girl.

"Ah, good-evening. Zo you'f come ba-ack. You fount my zandwiches naice."

Teddy replied that he had, ordering six, with a dozen of her doughnuts. Her manner was so affable that he failed to notice her piercing eyes fixed upon him, nor did he realize how much a young man's aspect can betray after twenty-four hours without water to wash in, as well as without hairbrush or razor. He thought of himself as presenting the same neat appearance as on the previous evening; but the woman saw him otherwise.

"I wonder if I could have a glass of water?" he asked, his throat almost too parched to let the words come out.

"But sairtainly." She turned to the child, whispering in a foreign language, but using more words than the command to fetch a glass of water would require.

When the child came back, Teddy swallowed the water in one long gulp. The woman asked him if he would like another glass, to which he replied that he would. More instructions followed, and while the woman tied up the sandwiches the little girl came back with the second glass. This Teddy drank more slowly, not noticing as he did so that the little girl slipped away.

Nor did he notice as he left the shop and turned westward into the gloaming, that the child was returning from what seemed like a hasty visit to a neighbor's house across the street. Still less did he perceive, when the comforting loneliness of the marshes began once more to close round him, that a big, husky figure was stalking him. It had come out of one of the tenements over the way from the pastry shop, apparently at a summons from the wispy little girl. Like the men whom Jennie had seen eying the house in the afternoon, he suggested the guardianship of law, even though he was, so to speak, in undress uniform. His duties for the day being over, he had plainly been taking his ease in slippers, trousers, and shirt. Even now he was bareheaded, pulling on his tunic as he went along.

He didn't go very far, only to a point at which he could see the boy in front of him turn into the unused path that led to the old shack. Whereupon he nodded to himself and turned back to his evening meal.